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"The chair of Esther - be amazed!" |
“Grandfather, my mother says that the time has come and that
I must give away some of the things that I once treasured. But why? I
understand that some of the things I earlier enjoyed have come to mean less to
me but does that mean that I must give them to others who will not appreciate
them as I have or even worse, deposit them alongside mere rubbish?”
“Everything must be
thrown out, one day. The dump is our inheritance.”
“But what of holy things? Must they also end up as common garbage?”
“Little one, there is
nothing common, only degrees of the sacred. All that is created, all that is imagined
-such as these precious thoughts we have that flit and flutter within -anything
that is dreamed and imagined and realized must one day perish, must finally be
consumed by time and chance, by life and death.”
“But you’ve spoken before about the memory of love, Grandfather,
and how that cannot truly be lost."
“That is true. The exuberance
of youth, the passion of oneness, the slipping of childhood innocence on the
brink of its awakening into a deeper innocence, the sweetness of young love’s
embrace are thought to be eternal in the heavens and yet even a candle flame
neglected will burn out; all things become as they
once were, things seen and unseen must decline, erode and finally, be no more.”
“My dear father’s father, you speak in parables and
mysteries! What about goodness and all things pure –what of these noble truths?
Must they, too, come to nothing?”
“Let me tell you a
story.”
There
once was a woman who was all alone. She had no family but in her old age she
adopted an abandoned child who was unwanted, sick and certain to die young. She
spared no expense and made room for him and fed him and loved him. He got a
little better and, though frail, lived into his teenage years. He read a lot
and taught himself a considerable amount and so it happened that this child
became the teacher to his grandmother, who was really more like a mother to him
(he called her ‘Mammy-dear’). When he was feeling okay she would help him get
comfortable in his favorite chair and from there this young prince would hold
forth his court, filling his days with laughter among a growing audience of friends
and admirers who had heard of his wisdom, funny stories and joyful spirit. Some
of them had even come from far and wide to enjoy his great adventures and they
were never disappointed as he mesmerized them with riddles, amazing facts and tall
tales about galaxies and gadgets, wizards and other wonders.
And
though the chair was known jokingly as his throne, others sometimes sat in it,
typically when he was too tired to move from his bed. But he was as generous with
his chair as he was with his time, possessed as he was with a rare majesty, a
lifted beauty and expansive spirit. The chair had long supported his broken
frame, this bent and bruised vessel of grace- and it was often declared by the
visitors that “This chair and its occupant would end up alive forevermore!" "Surely”
his many friends assured her, “his bright light would never burn out.”
One
day though, her beloved grandson did die –the doctors could do no more- and
then he was gone. And, although the chair had become less than comfortable by
then, for a while she took to sleeping in it and for many years she could not bring
herself to dispose of it for the chair had come to represent her child, a
symbol of better days.
Eventually
though, she decided it was time for the chair to find a new home. Some suggested
she put it on the curb or even in the trash but she could not bring herself to
do that. She asked around. “Certainly an old friend would want to have it,
repair it?” she concluded. But there were no takers so she did finally put it
on the curb and waited to see if someone would stop and collect it, filled as
it was with all those memories and meaning. Cars did stop, and there was much
poking and prodding. Some even sat in it but as it was no longer an attractive
piece, there were no takers.
After
seven full days, the weekly garbage pick-up day arrived and the hulking, grey truck
arrived on the street. She said goodbye to the chair, sitting in it one more time in an attempt to sweep up in
her arms all that had been at rest there, once upon a time. Then, she got up, returned
to the house and looked away from the window for she had decided beforehand not
to see it callously crushed by the huge truck press that was capable of
reducing any discarded item to near dust. But she could not turn away for long.
Instead, one last look through the darkened screen! Two garbage collectors were
there now and one of them in front of the chair –“what?” she whispered, “he’s
removing his glove and is now kissing his still-dirtied hand and he’s reaching
down to touch the chair, his hand resting in blessing for that chair!” “My
grandson’s chair!” and she wanted thank him for such tenderness, but her
voice fell silent amidst the tears… then the shrill voice of the other
collector who began teasing his coworker for “such non-sense; it’s just a
stupid, junky old chair” he growled as together they grabbed the armrests to take
up the chair for its final flight.
Before
that moment she had thought of the chair as the place from which her son gave
life –but now she saw that, to him, it was a holy space he had mainly reserved for
others. To this grandmother, it was her son who gave so magnificently, buried though
he often was deep in the warmth of the many blankets she had provided, due to the growing coldness
within. She understood now that the true source of her joy and love was given by him in
his invitation to sit, with his open and unconditional welcome. “The
chair was really for me” she marveled to herself that day, “healthy though I was, I was
the one in need of healing and he saved that space for me, his throne for me.”
"Grandfather, that garbage guy was kind to do that and the
grandma seemed to be very wise, too."
“My dear, I
think you’re right! All things –and people- will eventually wear out and yet,
somehow, in some way, we must appreciate, admire, trust, and sometimes, yes, be
swept off our feet by some things and by some people, of course. It is in our
nature to want and to need that kind of connection. Rare is the person who can
see it; rarer still the one who values such insight. Transcendence is part of
what it means to be human -built into the furniture, as it were. Never forget
the deed of the ungloved garbage collector who knew enough to see the sacred
thing before him, something he knew in his heart to be true, and, I think, eternal.”
“Oh, grandfather, you are much too serious! Next time I will
ask only about easy things, about frivolous matters!”
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"And then she was gone..." |